


alabaster

by unicornball



Series: Colors [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, DWRColorsChallenge, Gen, Interior Designer Castiel, Maybe Dean likes his plain walls OK Sam?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8230058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornball/pseuds/unicornball
Summary: Dean doesn't need help but Sam is an annoying, persistent little shit. Apparently 8 months of blank walls and sparse furnishings is some sort of sign he needs his little brother poking his nose into his business and calling interior designers behind his back.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _Today's color:_  
>  Alabaster  
> al·a·bas·ter (/ˈaləˌbastər/)
> 
> White.
> 
> _Sooo, forewarning: Cas is gonna be OOC here because it amused me too much to have him act more like Misha._
> 
> _Enjoy._

Dean doesn't _need_ help but Sam is an annoying, persistent little shit. Apparently 8 months of blank walls and sparse furnishings is some sort of sign he needs his little brother poking his nose into his business and calling interior designers behind his back.

Interior designers that ring his doorbell at too-damn-early on a Saturday morning.

If the guy didn't have a carry-out tray with two huge coffees balanced on his hand he would've slammed the door and gone back to bed.

As it is, it takes his brain a few moments to engage because he just doesn’t have hot guys standing on his porch holding hot, strong coffee. Once it clicks, he frowns and looks the guy over. He’s wearing ripped and stressed jeans (that Dean absolutely does not even care are probably designer and likely cost two weeks pay), a fitted t-shirt with a fat unicorn on it and bright orange flip flops.

Either Sam didn’t get references before hiring this guy, or he’s still asleep.

He settles on a bland “Can I help you?” in greeting just in case this guy isn’t in cahoots with Sam and is some other random dude that doesn't deserve his pissy attitude about the whole design thing.

“Hello. I’m Castiel. Are you Dean?”

Dean stares and resists the urge to pinch himself. Because that low, gravely voice. He’s pretty sure he’s not dreaming, though, because he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to come up with a name like ‘Castiel’ on his own. He looks between the bright smile and crinkled blue eyes and feels curiously fluttery.

He nods, taking the coffee being handed to him merely out of habitual impulse. He steps to the side when Castiel takes a step forward, obviously intent on getting inside.

“Sure, come on in,” he mutters as Castiel walks right in. He steps back inside and closes the door with exaggerated care so he doesn't slam it. Castiel is standing in his foyer, looking around with open curiosity.

He looks too, feeling a curious prickle of embarrassment to see it really is plain.

No pictures, no decorations, not even a pair of scattered shoes. But Castiel doesn’t look like it bothers him, he actually looks excited, so Dean pushes the embarrassment away. His boring house is why the dude is here, after all.

He sips his coffee, humming softly to himself—strong and black, just how he likes it. Castiel now has a clipboard out, taking notes and muttering about “so plain”, “bi-levels” and “cramped entryways” that he ignores in favor of caffeine.

Without a word, Castiel turns on his heel and wanders down the main hallway, head swiveling as he looks around. Dean follows, keeping some distance so Castiel can do his thing. He sips his coffee and resolutely ignores Castiel’s running (bordering on bitchy) commentary as he looks at Dean’s house.

"Alabaster," Castiel says with a sad little tsk, shaking his head as he looks at the plain walls. He huffs and rolls his eyes. "So twenty-fifteen."

Dean stares for a long moment. He can't tell if the guy is yanking his chain or not.

"Dude, it's _white_." But Castiel is already moving on, making that annoying little tsking sound again, clipboard perched on his bent forearm as he takes notes and makes little sketches.

Dean follows, dread weighing his belly. This is going to be fucking expensive.

.

By the time Castiel has been through his whole house (even his damn bedroom), Dean is decidedly unsettled. They're in the small eat-in kitchen, Castiel sitting at the table and flipping through the notes he'd taken.

There are a lot of notes.

“So?” Dean asks, unable to take the silence anymore. He lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers, “Give it to me; how bad is it gonna be?”

Castiel is quiet for another moment before pushing his clipboard aside. “Are there any rooms I missed? A basement, maybe?”

Dean shrugs. “No, you've seen everything but the garage.” Castiel's expression lights up and he frowns, confused. “You're not touching my garage, man.”

“No,” Castiel agrees, smiling. He has no intention of doing so, but nothing else in the house had struck him as _Dean_. The house had no real personality, which was puzzling once he'd looked the man over. (One of the spare rooms was half-filled with things still in moving _boxes_.) And this is the first time Dean's given any sort of opinion. Finally, a room that will give him real, personal insight to his client. “But I'd like to see it.”

Dean deliberates for a moment, giving Castiel a suspicious look, before nodding. “Yeah, okay.” Castiel is up with an eager expression, already heading out of the kitchen. He pushes past Castiel and leads the way to the the door that connects the garage to the house.

He pauses, hand on the knob, and gives Castiel a stern look. “And don't touch anything. Capiche?”

“Yeah, I capiche,” Castiel says brightly, grinning.

As soon as the door opens, he knows he's seeing the heart of Dean Winchester. There's the faint smell he always associates with garages and everything is clean and orderly.

Taking up most of the garage is a large, black, shiny muscle car. It's impressive even though he knows little about cars. He steps closer but doesn't touch the shiny surface, even if he _is_ tempted to.

He whistles appreciatively, following the lines of the car with his gaze. He can see Dean preen from the corner of his eye and can't help laughing softly. He steps further in, looking around. Two large, wheeled tool holders are neatly arranged on a far wall. Some tools on peg board and hooks over an orderly workbench that takes up the nearly the entire wall.  
  
There are a few oil stains underfoot, but they look old and faded— most likely from the previous owner that Dean tried to scrub away.

He can tell Dean is getting antsy, apparently uncomfortable at last with Castiel in his space. He makes his way out, taking a few more notes before walking back into the house.

Dean blinks when Castiel heads right to the front door. He can see Castiel look over his shoulder as he says “I'll be in touch!” and then he's gone.

He flops onto the sofa and tries not to think of it as a threat.

 


End file.
